


Finder's Keeper's

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Credence Needs A Hug From Everyone, Demisexual/Panromantic Character, Dragons, Everything and Everyone is okay, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More Humor Later On, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn, Some mentions of past violence/abuse, Touch-Starved, Wee Bit Of Angst At Beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: If things had gone according to plan, then Newton Artemis Fido Scamander would be well on his way back to London by now. He would not be sitting in the Goldstein's living room once more and waiting for any sign of life from the boy currently curled up in their guest room.After finding Credence alive and not-particularly-well, Newt takes him back to London with him. The quiet plan to teach the Obscurial a bit of magic and settle down to write his book doesn't exactly work out the way he'd thought, but when does anything work in Newt's favor?





	

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing the movie three times, purchasing the screenplay, and reading every single story in the Credence/Newt tag, I decided to sate my own desire and write my own fic. Writing new characters is a bit difficult after sticking to the same ones for over a year, but here's to hoping I don't fuck them up too much.  
> A short chapter to start, but they will progressively get longer and more interesting. I just wanted to lay down the base for the first one.  
> Hope you enjoy!

If things had gone according to plan, he would be on his way back to London by now. If things had worked out like they were supposed to, he would be sitting in a first class cabin, perhaps down in his case tending to his creatures, or maybe sitting with his manuscript and a cup of Earl Grey with two sugars, no cream, and giving the first draft another look over for errors. 

If things had gone the way they should have, he would not be sitting in the Goldstein’s sitting area once more, fidgeting and damp from the storm outside.

Newt watches as carrots cut themselves into bite-sized pieces, celery slicing itself in the air and falling into the pot of chicken stock with soft little ‘plops’. A golden baked chicken starts to fall off of its bones a little ways away, tender strips of meat slipping down into the pot with a bit less splashing than the vegetables. It smells delicious, but he has no appetite, not after the afternoon that they’ve had. His coat is on the rack by the fire, drying along with Queenie’s and Tina’s, and his hair is still curled wildly from the moisture. 

“I don’t think-“ Newt starts gently, rubbing his palms along his knees nervously, but he’s interrupted by Tina. 

“He can’t stay here, Queenie, we can’t-“

“He’s a boy, Teenie, he didn’t do anything wrong!” 

“I know he didn’t, I know, but if they find him, they’ll make him stand trial, they’ll give him a death sentence for endangering lives and exposing wizard kind and-“ 

“It wasn’t on purpose!” 

Newt winces as the carrots start to throw themselves into the pot instead of plopping gently, droplets of hot stock hitting Tina’s hand. The witch hisses, looking to the soup in surprise and then to her sister, whose attention is on a sour dough loaf, putting hatches in the top as it bakes in the air. The loaf doesn’t shake, per se, but it does wobble as Queenie’s hand quivers, and Newt watches to make sure it doesn’t fall until it reaches the platter in the middle of the table.

“Perhaps we could focus on the now instead of the later?” Newt suggests softly, his words unheard as the sisters fall into silence once more, focused on the meal.

It’s been like this ever since they came back to the small flat, the unconscious boy held up between them. The air crackles with tension between the two girls, all three of their minds and hearts heavy with worry as Queenie finishes the soup. It ladles itself out into bowls, and he watches as Queenie’s hand shakes once more as she twitches her wand to pour the lemonade. The lights of the apartment dim a little more, the weather outside dark and grim as the candles light themselves and warm the room. The fire spits and crackles louder and burns brighter, and Newt watches as the rack holding their coats moves away a little to avoid sparks.

“No, honey, I’ll take it in to him,” Queenie says, her voice soft. It takes a moment for Newt to realize she’s speaking to him and not her sister, her eyes seeking him on the couch. His thought of who would take the food to Credence was just a flicker of a question, so fast and forgettable that he had to ask himself what she was referring to in answering him.

“Oh,” Newt says, hands grabbing at his knees once more, palms scraping against the wool of his trousers. “I just thought … perhaps a familiar face-“

“I’ll take it to him,” Tina interjects, and Newt’s gaze snaps to her as she takes one of the bowls from Queenie. “He knows me.” 

He trusts her, Newt thinks, as Tina bites her lip, a simple twitch of the hand ripping off a chunk of bread. It floats to her, resting on the plate beside the bowl of soup, and she walks into the other room, the accordion doors opening and closing silently behind her. 

“He trusts you, too, you know.”

Newt winces a bit, looking towards where his coat is hung. “I don’t see why,” he mutters before he stands, hands shoved into his pockets. “I failed to protect him when I very well should have been able to.”

A glance upwards shows Queenie standing at the table. Her lips are tucked in, her hands held in front of her, her fingers restless as she stands beside the bowls of steaming chicken soup and the crusty loaf of sourdough bread. She looks tired. They all look tired, he supposes, after the day they’ve had. 

A day of whispers, of rumors of a kid near the abandoned Second Salemers property, tucked in an alleyway and convulsing. A day of near misses, nearly stepping up to the ticket counter only to see a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye. It was sheer dumb luck he saw Queenie at all in the crowd, even luckier that she’d managed to catch him before the ship left for London. The rain started pouring after they’d found their way to the alleyway, darkening the shoulders of Tina’s coat as she bent over the shivering, unconscious boy. 

It was impossible. There was no way he could have survived. But as Newt’s mind reeled with theories and possibilities and ideas as to how he could have lived through the Obscurus, let alone the spells thrown at him, the girls were already hoisting him over their shoulders and Apparating all four of them back to their flat. The rain continued as they brought him up the stairs, droplets hammering against the windows as they tucked the boy in, his skin clammy and clothes soaked through. The blankets they put upon him did little to ease the shivering; the tonic Newt concocted and poured down his throat helping the most. A calming drought, for those who fail to handle stings and bites and nips as well as he can. 

Newt doesn’t know how long it’s been since they returned to the flat. He thinks he heard the chime of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, but he’s not entirely sure how many times he’s heard it. His mind has been elsewhere, half here and half there. 

“He trusts you because of the subway,” Queenie explains softly as he stands and walks over to the table. The soup smells delicious, but his stomach turns at the thought of eating, and so he merely stands hesitant behind the chair, Queenie on the other end. “He trusts you because you protected him from Mister Graves.” 

Her little accent comes in, ‘Mister’ sounding more like ‘Mistah’. He offers her a hesitant flash of a smile, shifting on his feet as he looks down at the steaming bowl of soup before him. “It wasn’t enough, though, the Aurors-“ His voice shakes, and breaks half a moment before he hears the accordion doors open, and he looks up to see Tina stepping through with the soup still in her hands. Her worry is plain on her pretty face face, and Newt’s chest tightens at the sight. 

“He’s still not awake, and he looks even paler," she explains. "I don’t… I don’t know…”

The few words come out choked, and Newt watches as Queenie breathes a soft, “Oh, Teenie…” and goes to her sister, arm wrapping around her and pulling her close. 

Newt acknowledges the need for comfort. The boy – Credence, he reminds himself – looked terrible when they found him beside the broken walls of the ... he can't even call it a home, not after knowing what happened in that place. He doubts that the boy's health has gotten better over the past hour, not after what happened in the subway. The boy appeared nearly as sickly as the girl in Sudan, cheeks sunken and energy consumed by the Obscurus. He’s not one to believe in miracles, or fate, or anything of that sort, but it is a wonder the boy is alive. 

Pale, nearly gray and shivering, but alive. 

“He needs rest,” Newt offers gently. “That’s the best we can do right now.” In truth, he has no idea what the boy needs. Whether it’s medical attention or rest or food or warmth, he has no bloody idea. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know whether the boy will survive the night. 

“Newt Scamander, don’t you dare think that!” 

He blinks, looking up to see the two women staring at him, Queenie’s eyes wide and her hand still on her sister’s shoulder. Tina looks confused, looking between the two as Queenie looks at him in shock. 

“He’ll make it!” To hear such conviction from her is surprising, and Newt blinks in shock once more as she pulls from her sister and sits down at the table, hands trembling as she grabs a napkin and sets it in her lap. “Now eat, it’ll get cold.” 

He knows it’s not true. He knows that the bowls are most likely charmed to keep the food warm, like the ones he has in his case, like the ones most families have. But he can understand the need for something normal, something ordinary. And so he wordlessly offers what he can of a hesitant smile and sits down as well. “Y-yes, of course,” he says, voice quiet. “Of course he’ll make it, he just needs rest and care. That’s all.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Queenie replies, nodding as she reaches for her lemonade. “He will.” 

He will, Newt thinks to reassure her, even as he looks to Tina and sees her poking at a carrot with her spoon, obviously with her mind on the same track his is, though Queenie doesn’t reprimand her for thinking that way. 

“He will,” Newt offers quietly, and he watches as Tina looks up, and offers him a small hopeful smile before she looks back down at her meal. 

It’s awkward, at best. The air fills with the sounds of clinking spoons and the tearing of bread, but no words are spoken between them as they listen for anything, any sound, any bump or shift of the boy in the room behind them.


End file.
